Spring in Bell-Bottoms: The Thaw and Growth of an Era

In 1983, on Nanjing East Road in Shanghai, the first young person wearing bell-bottoms walked by, attracting the gaze of half a block. The wide pant legs swept the dust off the ground, yet they opened up a spring that had been imprisoned for too long. Those born in the 1960s still remember that the trendiest thing at the time was to take foreign exchange coupons to the Friendship Store to snatch up frog-eye glasses, with lenses that had to be exaggerated enough to match the disco dance steps they had just learned.

Fashion back then was imbued with a rough vitality. Girls in Beijing's alleys dyed their nails with blue ink, young men on the streets of Guangzhou tucked the hems of their Dacron shirts into their bell-bottoms, and mothers in Shanghai's lanes stayed up all night altering their children's clothes into batwing shirts. The scarcity of material goods could not dampen the enthusiasm for creativity, just like how fruit candies were always hidden in tin cookie boxes; even in a barren life, there were always sparkling surprises. At the 1984 Spring Festival Gala, Zhang Mingmin sang "My Chinese Heart" in a Zhongshan suit, and the next day, tailor shops across the country had long lines as young people wanted to make a garment just like his, as if wearing it would bring them closer to that burning patriotic heart.

The thaw of the spirit was even more intense than fashion. The 1978 discussion on the standard of truth was like a spring thunder, awakening dormant thoughts. Those born in the 1960s flocked to Xinhua Bookstore, flipping through "Selected Poems of the Obscure" and "Being and Time" and "The Third Wave." In university campuses, young people gathered under streetlights to discuss Sartre and Freud, their debates loud enough to drown out the cafeteria's meal bell. In 1986, Cui Jian shouted "Nothing to My Name" at the Beijing Workers' Gymnasium, and the young people in the audience suddenly stood up, throwing their bicycle locks into the air—this was not rebellion, but a long-suppressed emotion finally finding an outlet.

The Romance of the Ticket Era: Purity Born from Scarcity

Grain tickets were the most hardcore social currency of the 1980s. In 1982 Beijing, a worker earned a monthly salary of 38.6 yuan to support a family of five. Mothers calculated their lives with grain tickets, leaving white flour for the elderly and children, while mixing sweet potato flour with corn cakes for their own rations. Yet, even in such scarcity, there was warmth that can no longer be found today.

Those born in the 1960s who lived in tube buildings remember that when someone made braised pork, the whole building could smell the aroma. Zhang's soy sauce bottle often appeared on Li's stove, and Wang's children would always go to Zhao's house to do homework after school. On the day the cloth ticket was abolished in 1985, the aunties in the alley cried while holding their sewing machines—those cloth tickets saved over the years were for making wedding quilts for sons and small jackets for granddaughters, each ticket inscribed with hopes for a better life.

Love in that era carried a shy poetic quality. Young men rode their bicycles with a girl in a floral dress on the back, the bike bell ringing down the whole street. The date spots were not cafes, but park benches, the back rows of cinemas, and corners of libraries. Love letters had to be written on scented stationery, starting with "Seeing the letter is like seeing you," and ending with a clumsy little heart. In 1987, when "Lushan Romance" was released, the kiss scene between the lead characters made the audience cover their faces and peek through their fingers, and after the show, young men would blush and say to the girls, "Let's go to Lushan next time."

Collective memories hold warm codes. The loudspeakers in the work unit courtyard played "The East is Red" on time every day, children chased and played at the cafeteria entrance, while adults played chess in the shade of trees. During the New Year, the whole courtyard would paste couplets together, and on New Year's Eve, each family would bring a dish to form a New Year's dinner that spanned multiple households. This sense of security wrapped in collectivity is a luxury that those who later moved into commercial housing could never experience again.

The Soil of Idealism: Believing that Hard Work Can Change Destiny

Outside the examination hall in the winter of 1977, young people wrapped in cotton coats stomped their feet to keep warm. The news of the restoration of the college entrance examination was like a ray of light, illuminating the lives of countless people born in the 1960s. Some of them memorized vocabulary while planting rice in the fields, some chewed on books beside the lathes in workshops, and some had already become parents, yet they reviewed under kerosene lamps while holding their children. In March 1978, 5.7 million candidates entered the examination hall, and when the admission notices were sent to the village, everyone in the village came to beat drums and gongs—this was not an individual victory, but a collective belief of a generation that knowledge could change destiny.

The air in university campuses was filled with the scent of ideals. University students in the 1980s were called "the proud children of heaven," yet they lived the simplest lives. Under the beds in the boys' dormitories were always piled with basketballs and old sneakers, while the windowsills in the girls' dormitories held jars of pickled vegetables brought from home. They discussed "Where is China's future?" in class, formed poetry societies in their dorms, and sang "We Will Meet Again in Twenty Years" on the playground. During the National Day parade in 1984, Peking University students suddenly unfurled a banner saying "Hello, Deng Xiaoping," and those four characters concealed the most sincere respect of a generation.

The rise of individual businesses was filled with stories of hard work. In 1980, Wenzhou girl Zhang Huamei trembled as she received China's first individual business license. She set up a stall selling buttons on the street, waking up before dawn and returning home under the moonlight. Later, she opened a clothing store, hired over a dozen workers, and became the renowned "Button Queen." Back then, businesspeople valued "fairness to all," and their reputation was built on trust, unlike today where one relies on fake orders and cash-back reviews.

The Construction of a Spiritual Homeland: Why Can't We Go Back?

What those born in the 1960s miss is not scarcity, but the hope that grew from it. China in the 1980s was like a giant just waking up, each step taken solidly and powerfully. GDP grew at double digits every year, the International Trade Building in Shenzhen was built a floor every three days, and the electronics street in Zhongguancun began to see intellectuals "going into business." People back then believed that "those who work hard will win," and that "tomorrow will be better," a certain happiness that gradually shattered into uncertain anxiety in later times.

What they miss is not simplicity, but the purity within that simplicity. Back then, housing allocation in work units was based on seniority, professional titles were evaluated based on papers, and the bride price was three turns and one sound (bicycle, sewing machine, watch, radio). There was no anxiety over school district housing, no exhaustion from the 996 work culture, and no noise from live-streaming sales. People believed that "you reap what you sow," and this simple value gradually blurred in the later material flood.

More importantly, it was their golden age. Those born in the 1960s were in their youth in the 1980s, their ideals set sail in the tide of reform and opening up, their love blossomed in pure times, and their hard work bore fruit in the opportunities of the era. Just as people always reminisce about their youth, what they actually miss is that self full of possibilities. When the music of square dancing changes to "The Story of Time," the wrinkles at the corners of their eyes hide the moonlight of the entire 1980s.

The Filter of Memory: How Should We View This Collective Nostalgia?

Sociologists say that nostalgia is a gentle protest against reality. When those born in the 1960s repeatedly talk about the 1980s at class reunions, they are actually reminiscing about those days that, although poor, were full of hope, and that simple self who had faith. Just like old photos always turn yellow, memories automatically filter out bitterness, leaving only the sweet parts—they will not forget the embarrassment of shopping with tickets, but they are more willing to remember the warmth of sharing among neighbors; they will not forget the pressure of the college entrance examination, but they are more willing to remember the joy of receiving the admission notice.

This nostalgia is also a form of spiritual inheritance. The idealism, spirit of hard work, and collective consciousness of the 1980s have always flowed in the blood of the nation. When those born after 2000 stay up late in libraries for graduate school, when young people strive for their dreams in live-streaming rooms, and when neighbors exchange supplies during the pandemic, we can all see the shadows of the 1980s. Those beautiful qualities have never disappeared; they have just existed in a different form.

Perhaps we do not need to be entangled in whether we can go back. Every era has its own pains and glories, just as people in the 1980s could not have imagined that today's China would have high-speed trains and 5G, and we cannot predict what the future will be like. But those memories of ideals, hard work, and warmth will always be the starlight illuminating the road ahead.

As dusk falls, the song "Young Friends, Let's Meet" plays again in the community square. Those born in the 1960s dance to the rhythm, their silhouettes stretching long under the streetlights, like a line connecting the past and the present. This is not an escape from reality, but a reflection on their original intentions—after all, everyone who moves forward needs to know where they came from.

This is perhaps the most precious gift the 1980s left us: no matter how far we go, we must not forget why we set out.